


Zone Blitz

by summerstorm



Category: Glee
Genre: Crossdressing, F/F, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-21
Updated: 2009-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:56:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>from <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/glee_kink/703.html?thread=269247">glee_kink</a>: Quinn loves the idea of dressing up in a boy's football uniform, but is embarrassed/ashamed. Rachel proves to her that her fantasy isn't weird, or abnormal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zone Blitz

Quinn's been eying Finn's old football uniform for a while.

It's easy to look at it, in the literal sense; it's been hanging in her closet since Finn grew out of it a couple of years ago and Quinn offered to keep it—she thinks the words she used were "as a token of your affection", and Finn just frowned and shrugged and gave her a dry cleaner's coupon and let her take it home even though she had no use for it. It wasn't like she could just wear a football jersey over her cheerleader uniform like a letterman jacket, and shoulder pads were so obsolete, and those pants would look terrible under any skirt. Not a single part of the uniform was really appropriate or comfortable as loungewear, either.

So, at first, Quinn came up with the possibility that she wanted to own it because it had belonged to her boyfriend, and that was good enough for her. It was girly and romantic and not too obsessive—she wasn't stealing it or using it for black magic spells that wouldn't work or anything—and she kept it clean and hadn't asked for his jockstrap or anything. It was, as unique love tokens go, something a good Christian might just do.

The thing is, that doesn't explain why she can't bring herself to throw it out now that things with Finn are over and buried and the trauma's mostly in the past. It's like she likes to be reminded of all the suffering they put themselves and their parents and their lawyers and Puck and the glee club and the couple who adopted the baby through.

It's just—she doesn't really think about that, when she looks at it. It's red and white and flashy and takes up a lot of space, and it's always kind of felt like that gorgeous, elegant dress you wore to a wedding once and never ever get a chance to use, but it's comforting to know that if the occasion arises, the dress will be happily sleeping in your closet, waiting for you to put it on and look more beautiful than ever.

Except this isn't an evening gown, it's a _boy's football uniform_, and Quinn is pretty sure a boy's football uniform isn't the kind of thing you hold over your chest in front of the mirror and wish you had the chance to show somebody else how hot it looks on you.

That doesn't seem to be enough of a reason not to do it, though, and she always feels like a freak afterward, wonders if a shower will be enough for her morals to feel clean again. And it's not like there's anything inherently wrong with it, really, only it's not Halloween, and Quinn is a _girl_, and she looks good in pretty much anything she chooses to wear, so why would she want to wear a football uniform? She doesn't want to be a _boy_ or anything. She just thinks she looks—_nice_ in it. It's not too big on her; Finn's always been gigantic for his age, but Quinn's had her share of growing since Finn became too big for this particular uniform, so it clings to certain places and makes others feel weirdly exposed.

And, okay, maybe it turns her on a little, to see herself looking so strong and composed and comfortable without any make-up on, because her face looks good against the red of the jersey, and her loose hair keeps the boyishness _boyish_ instead of flat-out vulgar or entirely masculine.

It's just—it doesn't really make any sense. Quinn Fabray is beautiful and smart and bitchy and happy to be all of those things, so why does an ill-fitting football uniform make her feel sexy? She's missing half the equipment, anyway, including pretty important stuff like shoulder pads that she's pretty sure she can't just convince a random someone to let her borrow. And why would she want them, anyway? It's not like she plans on ever _wearing_ it.

She doesn't realize she's actually _put the uniform on_ until she hears the door open and click shut behind her, and she has turned around and is staring right into Rachel's face before she has the chance to hide or change or open up the earth to swallow her.

Rachel raises an eyebrow instantly. She says, "I got here just as your dad was leaving," which means they're alone and there's nobody for Rachel to discuss Quinn's issues with, and, "I brought your Biology textbook." She walks across the room and perfunctorily leaves it on Quinn's desk, and Quinn would never, ever say it out loud because it sounds stupid and trite and much more lighthearted and _nice_ than her usual brand of irony, but they really need to stop meeting like this.

Rachel half-sits on the edge of the desk and looks from Quinn to the mirror, lips pursed in concentration. Eventually she gives up on figuring anything out on her own.

"Why are you wearing a football uniform?" she asks matter-of-factly. It's the least subtle lead-up to an awkward question Quinn has ever heard, except for maybe that one time Rachel slipped a hand under Quinn's bra without even asking.

"No reason," Quinn croaks out, then adds, a little more firmly, "It's none of your business."

Rachel presses her lips together, pensive, kind of amused. "I believe you relinquished your right to dodge my questions around the time you said you didn't hate me, never meant for me to take your kisses as a joke and would really like me to give you a chance to make this work."

"I never said that," Quinn says honestly.

"I inferred it from your actual statements," Rachel says. "I have an essay on it. I can e-mail it to you as soon as I get home."

Quinn's eyes widen for a second—she knows Rachel is serious. She probably does have some kind of diary entry quoting Quinn's speech verbatim and pulling it all apart and then back together to figure out what Quinn _didn't_ say. It shouldn't be surprising, so Quinn just shakes her head in disbelief—disbelief that anyone could have the time and the patience and the _insanity_ to do something like that.

"So—" Rachel begins, like she's preparing to pry it out of her whether Quinn wants to or not. "Do you miss Finn?" Quinn laughs. That's ridiculous. She didn't even miss Finn when she wanted him to be with her. She misses being the golden couple at school, maybe, but not _Finn_. Besides, he's been acting nice and civil to her lately, which is really enough by her, and she's beginning to rethink her bisexuality. Honesty, she might not even lean towards guys at all.

Rachel's voice interrupts her thought process. "Do you miss your never-been-slushied status?"

"Yes," Quinn snaps, "obviously. But trust me, wearing—" She can't bring herself to say the words, dear goodness. "Wearing _this_ does not bring back any happy memories. Or any memories at all." She wants to take it off. Not like—not like she wants to take her clothes off, just the uniform. Forget this ever happened. Throw it away so it never won't. _Stop thinking_ about Rachel's hands underneath her jersey or how the pants might easily be loose enough without thigh pads or knee pads for Rachel to work a hand up one of the legs and—

"Do you—_feel_ like a boy?" Rachel asks, her tone full of political correctness. "Because, uh, as your quasi-girlfriend I have to be supportive of that, but I might need a few hours to adjust my mind-set."

"I—no, of course not," Quinn says, laughing it off. "I was just—bored. I was trying on clothes. Randomly."

Rachel looks around, and eventually, damn it, rests her eyes on the perfectly arranged collection of clothing in her closet. It doesn't look like she's touched any items other than the ones she's wearing.

"This thing is big," Quinn explains. Lying feels a lot easier now that she has a rational explanation for it. "That's why I picked it out first. It was handy. And you're a theater geek, you should understand the fun in dressing up."

Rachel blinks, considering Quinn's words. "Is that what we're doing?" she says.

"What else would it be?" Quinn says, shaking her head.

"Okay," says Rachel. "Do you want me to put on your cheerleader uniform? I don't mind." Quinn is pretty sure Rachel is the only person in the world who could say that and mean it without an ounce of embarrassment or suggestiveness in her voice. The disbelief must show on Quinn's face, because then Rachel says, "No? Okay. I can be any-jock's-innocent-and-mass-approved-girlfriend in casual clothes and ready to cheer from the bleachers too."

"I'm dressing up, not roleplaying," Quinn explains. She sounds a little condescending, which is probably wrong, considering everything, but Rachel has no qualms about indulging her own desires and fantasies and Quinn will not be taken down that road if she can help it.

"As a theater geek, as you lovingly put it, I dress up to play a part," Rachel says, rising to her feet and walking over to where Quinn's standing as she sputters dignified-sounding nonsense. "Of course, you're missing your shoulder pads, so I understand you might not feel ready to act it." Rachel squints, looks Quinn up and down like she's trying to think of something. It's kind of uncomfortable and kind of—well, a turn-on. Rachel's measuring and analyzing her and kind of taking it all in and she hasn't grimaced once and, like. She's _looking_ at Quinn.

"What?" Quinn snaps, because there's no better defense than a well-timed offense, or something.

"Maybe if you put on the gloves," Rachel suggests unaffectedly, gesturing towards Quinn's bedside table.

Quinn's a little flabbergasted, so much so that it takes her a while to react, and when she does all she says is, "What?"

"And take off your bra," Rachel adds. "Mostly take off your bra. The gloves are optional. Also, the boy shorts look good. Just thought you should know that."

Quinn blinks, aghast. "Is that a leer?"

"Of course not," Rachel says, matter-of-fact. "I just want to see if and or how your nipples show through the jersey. I believe you'd like to feel the fabric, too."

"You have got to be kidding me," says Quinn.

Rachel laughs. "Quinn, seriously. Come on. I'm not one of your Celibacy Club friends. This doesn't hurt me. If you find it hot, I can roll with it."

Quinn doesn't _smile_ or anything ridiculous like that. She just does as she's told because—well, because Rachel doesn't seem to be judging her. And because Rachel's wearing knee-high socks and her sweater is the goody-goodiest thing Quinn's ever seen and Rachel has no trouble corrupting herself, but there's something about the way she looks most of the time that makes the concept of debauching her seem plausible.

"This is weird," Quinn mentions, because someone _has to_, and because it's kind of painfully awkward to reach back to pull her bra straps down over her elbows without undressing while Rachel stares at her in silence and steps close and lays a hand over Quinn's waist, leaning back against the one closet door that remains shut.

"Why?" Rachel asks, totally serious. Quinn wants to say it's weird because she's wearing a boy's football uniform, and Rachel's presence before her feels small and malleable instead of majestic and terrifying but—that's Rachel's doing, not Quinn's. It's Rachel who's acting coy and waiting for Quinn to take the next step. It's—Quinn doesn't know if Rachel's doing it on purpose or just reacting to having a football jersey bunched around her hand, but it feels strangely right, like a rush of bravery taking over Quinn's body and causing her stomach to quiver.

"Because," she says instead. She adds, "Because we're in my room," and she leans in to steal a kiss, a quick press of her lips against Rachel's, the movement unavoidably automatic.

"There's probably a way to sneak into the football field at night. I do like a challenge."

"That's not—I don't want to be caught doing this," Quinn says. She doesn't, really. And it's not—it's not the playing football thing, really. She's not actually sure what it is, but the thought of her wearing this on a football field doesn't make her heart race or her head feel light and dazed any more than wearing this anywhere else does.

Rachel hmms. "Locker room?" she suggests next, voice soft and tempting.

Quinn is two seconds away from snapping again, though, when Rachel goes a little limp in her arms and leans back against the closet door, prompting Quinn's body to follow the movement—Rachel's fingers have a tight grip on her wrist, so Quinn braces her one free hand near Rachel's head, and her lids fall shut instinctively. "I really wouldn't want to be—"

"—caught doing this," Rachel interrupts, words unusually soft, "I heard you the first time. Eyes closed, though, we can work with that."

"What are you talking about?" Quinn asks, guarded.

Rachel chuckles lightly. "You have me up against a door," she whispers. "It's not made of metal, but it's a door. And surely it's exhilarating to win a game and find your girlfriend waiting for you in a deserted locker room."

It comes as a shock when Quinn realizes they're kissing, and she has no idea who started it, or _why_, but Rachel's knees are bent and making Quinn feel tall and powerful and so incredibly horny her entire body from the hips down is starting to _pulse_.

Quinn is decidedly not roleplaying, here. She's not. She just _wants_, she wants so badly. She wants to hear more of those little breathy sounds Rachel makes when she's trying to keep a steel façade so Quinn won't mock her for being easy, not that there's ever any bite in her words. Rachel makes wanting seem effortless and painless and entirely _okay_, and Quinn can handle a boy's advances, can write them off as a teenage lack of self-control, but for some reason it's harder when it's Rachel.

Especially when Rachel casually slides her hand down Quinn's ass and gives it a squeeze that's at once firm and reluctant, like maybe it's Quinn who gets to call the shots this time, Quinn who gets to initiate and _seduce_ and break down Rachel's barriers, and it's impossible to resist—impossible not to kiss harder until Rachel's mouth opens wantonly beneath her, impossible not to press her palm against Rachel's breast and pinch her nipple through all those layers of clothing, let her know she means it and swallow her gasp of surprise.

Rachel's voice reverberates breathily through her body when she speaks, and the words take a while to process, or her brain takes a while to understand that, "I get that you may want somebody else to take care of that high," refers to a good game and means what Quinn thinks it means.

Her hand's on Rachel's shoulder now and she can unequivocally feel rather than see Rachel look up at her expectantly, like she's waiting for Quinn to push Rachel down to her knees, to goad her into it like that's not a horribly disgusting thing to do.

Except it's a give and take, a white lie for a white lie, and Rachel's wrapped Quinn's fingers around the door handle near her waist and Quinn's eyes are closed and everything feels just that slightest bit encouraging, preemptively responsive to whatever Quinn wants, and her voice feels foreign when she says,

"Yeah," palm pressing softly down on Rachel's arm, "come on," and she moans stupidly when she hears Rachel's knees hit the floor with a dry thud that sounds accidental, and it takes Quinn a while to realize it may really have been an accident—not something feigned but purposeless, and her breath hitches at it, at the realization that they've been building up to this for a while now but she's always kept Rachel's head burrowed in her neck or her chest, never allowing her mouth to travel further down her body.

Now, though, it feels like something she _deserves_, feels like her own idea, and a sense of authority sways through her so unexpectedly she has to lean forward and brace herself with a forearm against the door, forehead pressing against her wrist and beginning to sweat as Rachel drags the hem of her jersey out of the pants and nuzzles at Quinn's belly while undoing the fly laces with hands that feel unsteadier than Rachel's ever do.

The thing is, Quinn's not sure whether Rachel's pretending or not anymore.

Her breathing's coming uneven, the kitten heels of her shoes keep clacking against the floorboards and the closet and each other, and her knuckles burn every time they brush skin. Everything else is kind of rushed, clumsy rushed instead of the usual impatient but weirdly shrewd rushed, and in a short while she's struggling against spandex to let Rachel spread her knees open.

She lets Rachel work her boy shorts down and clutch her hips, grab onto them to maneuver one of Quinn's thighs over her shoulder, and she's pretty sure this must be horribly uncomfortable for Rachel, but then Rachel's tongue is licking a line from her inner thigh all the way up to her clit and all of a sudden it's really, really hard to care.

There's some more arranging and rearranging after that, but mostly Rachel's mouth spreading the slick between her legs and sending warmth everywhere, and then two fingers prodding and opening out her folds and soon enough sliding inside of her, and she stretches around the familiar feeling, although there's a tentativeness there that she hasn't felt in a while, that makes her moan in surprise when Rachel gets something _right_.

Quinn opens her eyes, has to blink a few times to focus. The red nylon of the jersey is spread over Rachel's head, dark curls becoming frizzy with static and Quinn's torn between feeling embarrassed that the light's on and if Rachel looked up she'd see the ugly underside of her breasts and her nipples peeking out from the folds of the fabric whenever she _breathes_, and fucking herself on Rachel's fingers just that little bit harder, letting her hips seek Rachel's tongue less apologetically. It's not wrong if you're just _pretending_ to—and Quinn's not roleplaying, seriously, but Rachel _is_, Rachel would raise her voice if she minded doing this, and Quinn can just sing along.

Or moan along, whatever. She hates being vocal but Rachel's got her head buried between her legs and is practically urging Quinn to _ride her face_ and God, if she'd known Rachel sucking on her clit would feel this good she'd have given in much sooner. Her hairline is disgusting and her knees are starting to give, but her stomach feels tight and the world's gone blurry around the edges and all she can do is speed things up, try to concentrate all this heat and intensity beneath the tip of Rachel's tongue until her eyes flutter shut and she's coming, rising to her tiptoes and cursing a traitorous whimper for escaping her throat.

She's on the floor before she manages to pull those stupid pants all the way up to her hips, but they're mostly covering her, at least, and she barely has time to react anyway before Rachel leans forward and just kisses her—not forceful, but tilting her neck back so Quinn can—well, frankly it looks like Rachel wants Quinn to call her a slut, but Quinn's pretty sure calling your girlfriend a hooker out of the blue isn't excusable no matter how much oversize football gear you're wearing.

It's probably okay to reach out and palm Rachel's breasts for a second before taking her sweater off and sliding a hand beneath her undershirt. Once Rachel's a little lighter as far as clothing goes, Quinn also takes that kiss Rachel was offering gladly, slippery and weird as it is and giddy and graceless as she's feeling, and it's not long before Rachel's mouthing her way across Quinn's cheek and whispering in her ear, lips wet against the lobe, "I think you're supposed to debauch me now." Quinn chuckles, low and surprised, and Rachel adds, "Or not. Considering everything, I probably wouldn't hold it against you if you left me hanging." She even has the nerve to sound like that might even turn her on—to press a hard nipple against Quinn's hand through the cotton of her bra.

Rachel's neck is tender beneath Quinn's teeth and she lets herself nibble and suck harder than normal before she says, "I like the debauching option best," and really definitely doesn't whimper again when Rachel breathily but coherently states that was her preferred alternative as well.

The fact that she finds Rachel's words charming is probably a sign that Quinn should check into a mental hospital as soon as she can walk steadily again.

They should probably move to the bed, but Rachel's hips are rolling insistently and she knows this isn't going to take very long at all—even less so when Rachel licks her lips and moves to lick Quinn's and flings a leg over Quinn's thighs, straddling her, and it's so easy to slip a hand between her bodies then, to press the back of it against the damp band of Rachel's panties, swallowing her groans like she doesn't love hearing them.

"You want my fingers?" Quinn asks, sounding more confident than she expected—sounding _at all_, why is she talking?—and actually kind of indecent.

Rachel just makes more some breathy noises against her mouth, though, face falling back over Quinn's shoulder before the sounds turn into _purring_ when Quinn pushes the material aside and touches slippery smooth skin.

Rachel's mouth opens at the contact, and this is normally where Rachel would start talking, giving out instructions or encouragement or ruining Quinn's mood altogether, but this time her lips close as quickly as they parted and she just nuzzles Quinn's neck, nasal sounds vibrating out of her throat instead of words. It's so endearing Quinn just gives in and follows the rhythm Rachel's hips are trying to set but not impose, a finger sliding in and out as her thumb rubs circles around Rachel's clit, gentle and drawn out so slow Quinn doesn't even understand why Rachel's reacting like this to them, but it's so beautiful it makes Quinn shiver.

Her hand trails down and over Rachel's side, down her back, and she pulls Rachel's body up a little when her fingers reach the back of her thigh. It goes fast from there; Quinn's nails sink soft into Rachel's ass and Rachel pushes down against Quinn's fingers without a trace of shame until her thighs go taut and Rachel's head tilts backwards and the purring becomes desperate gasping for air, hips still riding out her orgasm.

She collapses onto the floor, back leaning against the door to Quinn's closet, and just looks at Quinn for a while, half subtle and half investigative. It's—kind of embarrassing, for Quinn, now that the hazy high of sex is gone, so she waits only until her thighs react to walk on slightly shaky legs towards her bed, holding onto Rachel's wrist and dragging her along.

"Huh," Rachel says when Quinn's head has hit her soft, soft pillow. Mm.

"What?" says Quinn, wary.

"I bet you'd look hot if you actually played football and got that uniform all sweaty and muddy," Rachel says, flinching when she accidentally props herself up on her knees on the mattress.

"That's nauseating," Quinn says honestly. "From either side of the deal."

Rachel rolls over onto her back and watches her own chest heave. "You should try out for the spring musical," she says. "There are fake football uniforms backstage and besides, I've always wanted to make out with someone on stage. It's not like we don't already spend heaps of time in the auditorium. And I think they're getting new props this year, so the storage room will be full of dust-free soft surfaces to lie on."

Quinn grins. She definitely needs to get out of this uniform now, but—well, it obviously can't be that wrong if Rachel's so willing to indulge her. Not that Rachel's suddenly stopped being a freak, kind of a freak, but she's not completely insane, and Quinn likes her. Possibly a little too much. "Maybe if you catch me off-guard."

Rachel stares at the ceiling, then. Quinn's not sure what she finds more terrifying—Rachel making plans out loud or plotting things in silence.

"That is perfectly feasible," Rachel says, nodding lightly.

Definitely the latter, Quinn thinks—but it's equal parts scary and exciting.


End file.
